


Everything I Do (I Do It For You)

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Coda, Declarations Of Love, Episode: s11e23 Alpha and Omega, Everyone Fights Back, Everyone Needs A Hug, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mile High Club, Team Free Will, This Is What Happens When You Listen to Bryan Adams on Repeat, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 12:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6984448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are not lost. They are home.</p><p>(This is what love does to you: it brings you home.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Can’t Tell Me (It’s Not Worth Dyin’ For)

**Author's Note:**

> (Wishlist for Season 12)

Sam is well-trained, and this is why he doesn’t move. It takes everything he has not to move, because he sees it in her eyes - whoever this woman is, she’s not shooting to kill, and she seems to know what she’s doing - if Sam manages to stay exactly where he is, he’ll be alright - he’ll survive - and there is a split second when that doesn’t seem like a good idea at all, because Dean is -

But luckily, his instincts are all geared up towards the fight response - Sam knows, in some part of his mind, that Dean is not coming back, but the truth of it has not hit his heart and lungs yet, and until it doesn’t -

When the bullet hits, Sam staggers back, brings his hand up to the wound. It hurts like a mother, but he was right. A clean shot to his right shoulder - and, shit, no exit wound.

“This the best you can do?” he asks, trying to hide the pain, but when he looks up again, he sees the woman is not even there anymore. 

“Hey,” he calls, turning around, and after a second she reemerges from around the corner, pulling an elegant suitcase behind her.

“Yes, precisely,” she says, into her expensive phone. “I would have called Charles, but the cargo is - slightly out of the ordinary. Just the one, though.”

“Hey, what the _hell_ -” Sam starts, and the woman raises a hand up to silence him, and there is such an understated sense of control in the simple gesture, Sam obeys, purely out of politeness, forgetting for a split second what is actually going on.

“Thank you,” she says, hanging up; and then she slips her phone back into her purse and looks up at him. “We’ll have a car outside in ten minutes. Can you walk?”

Sam stares at her.

“What?”

“Can you walk?” she asks again, speaking more slowly, as though this is the problem here: her British accent.

“I’m not going _anywhere_ with you.”

“Don’t be difficult, now.”

Sam takes another step back, and his back collides with the staircase railing. There is something awful inside him - that thing that had shouted at him to move when she’d pulled the trigger - a thing now murmuring he might as well go with her, do whatever she wants, _die_ , even, because without Dean - hell, what is he supposed to without Dean?

_You could always get a dog_ , says Lucifer inside his mind, and Sam presses his left hand on the wound until it hurts (until that voice goes away).

“Who are you? What do you _want_ from me?”

Completely unconcerned, the woman walks towards him, the wheels of her suitcase making a soft purring noise.

“I told you,” she says, with a frown. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you both for a while, and this latest events have convinced us you need a much tighter leash. Choosing to ally yourselves with demons is bad enough, but sinking the _Bluefin_ , of all things -”

“ _What_?”

The room is getting darker around him. Which makes no sense at all. Sam grits his teeth, pushes back against the feeling of lightheadedness. The gun is getting heavy in the back of his trousers, and he itches to just put his hand on it and -

“Do you have _any_ idea what that has set in motion? Oh, of course you don’t.”

And now all of a sudden the woman is way too close. She’s standing a foot away from him, and her hand presses over his for a second, then she closes her finger around his, peels his hand away from the wound, takes another step forward.

Sam stares down at her as she looks at his bloodied shirt with polite disinterest.

For a second, he sees it happening inside his mind - she’s holstered her gun, and he has a foot on her, he could easily snap her neck when she stands - he sees his own hands coming up, twisting her head back - sees her falling down - and then a sort of dull ache blossoms from his shoulder, snakes its way through his whole body.

_Hunting things, saving people._

Whoever this woman is, she’s people. And if Sam can’t carry on doing the one thing he knows how to do, he might as well -

And Dean wouldn’t want that.

“Are you quite sure your brother is dead?” the woman asks softly, raising her eyes to his, and Sam is unable to look away.

“Yes,” he says, grief pooling deep in his stomach as he remembers how solid Dean had been in his arms - as he realizes he’ll never have that again - he’ll never -

_God_.

“My condolences,” the woman says, but before she can step back, Sam has grabbed her wrist.

“Like _hell_. Give me a reason not to - to kill you right now,” he forces out, but now the room is dimming even more, and her wrist feels as uncorporeal as smoke under his fingers.

“One reason? That bullet lodged against your shoulder blade has a spell on it,” she answers, sensibly. “You’ll be unconscious any second now. Really, things would have been much easier if you’d just listened to me and -”

Sam slumps against her, and everything goes dark.

# ~

When the man falls forward into her arms, Toni almost falls down.

“Really, now,” she says, as she would Fitz - but, of course, she can take Fitz’ weight, and she _likes_ taking Fitz’ weight, no matter what Mills says (“You’ll spoil him, Milady.”); this man, though - legendary hunter Sam Winchester - thank _goodness_ for her daily physical regime classes, because she’s not about to collapse on this dirty floor.

Not a chance.

Not in this _skirt_.

She takes a step back instead, trying to cradle Sam Winchester more firmly into her arms, hissing in annoyance when she realizes his wound is oozing dark red blood on her blazer.

“You couldn’t do as you were told, now, could you?” she says, and she tries to adjust her grip, almost falls to one side, realizes she doesn’t have a choice: she has to sit him down, because there is no way she can carry him on her own, or even hold him up much longer.

Her eyes fall on the blood stain on her blazer again, and she considers, for a split second, the possibility of simply letting him go and stepping aside. It’s not like he would sustain any permanent injury, after all (it’s not like he’s unused to pain). Toni’s read his file: the man has died at least twice; has been tortured by demons. He’s seen far worse than a bad fall and - perhaps - a mild concussion.

But, whatever else he is, Sam Winchester is also kin: a fellow Man of Letters who’s done, no doubt, the best he could under the circumstances. They all do, after all.

And so Toni purses her lips, bends her knees, manages, only just, to hold his weight until Sam is sitting back against the railing. She lets him go then, stands back up, checks her phone, types a quick message: she’ll definitely need help to get him out of this - bunker place.

She walks back to her suitcase next, and as she passes her hand on the seam, as if to reassure herself all she needs is indeed inside, her thoughts shift to Fitz - it must be time for his fencing now, and he always gets fussy - every week the same argument - but, well, what good would football do against monsters? One cannot very well score a demon to death.

The image of Fitz in his white fencing robes - his foil trailing against the floorboard, his little face scrunched up in determination (to do the very worst he can, of course; to be contrary at any cost) - is suddenly almost too much to bear.

Of course, she’d known all along the world would survive, but still - what nonsense.

(And if they’d been wrong - if they’d all died - if _Fitz_ had died -)

“How did you even _manage_ that?” she asks the man. “Freeing the Darkness - I ask you.”

Sam, of course, doesn’t answer, and Toni walks towards him - she’s quite sure the wound is only superficial, but it would be silly if the man were to die, after all the effort they’ve put in watching him and bringing him in.

She crouches in front of him, puts a hand on his shoulder. The fabric is already stiff with blood. Thomas is sure to have the appropriate tools in the car, but he’s still five minutes out, and there’s no harm in speeding things up a little.

Her hand moves lower, feeling the edge of the man’s jeans until she finds the hidden knife she was sure had to be there.

Hunters: not the brightest of the bunch, but usually well prepared and well equipped.

Unsheathing the thin blade, she carefully unpeels the thick, stiff fabric from the wound, cuts a strip all around it. There is a second layer underneath - a white t-shirt - and Toni cuts through that as well; and then she sucks on her thumb and cleans the wound, only enough to see what it is they are dealing with there.

Sam whimpers in his sleep when she presses down against the torn flesh, and he sounds so much like Fitz that Toni, on instinct, moves her bloody hand to his cheek.

“Shh,” she coos at him, and the man turns his face in her palm and sighs.

Toni remains where she is until her phone rings and it’s time to walk back upstairs, let Thomas in.

# ~

All around him, the world is green. There is a green sky over him, and Sam can barely see it, because there is a forest of tall grass blades blocking his path and his view. The things are at least a hundred feet tall, but they bend in the slight breeze, threatening to fall over his head with every step he takes.

“Hey,” Sam calls, and he doesn’t know whom he’s calling, and nobody answers.

He’s about to stop walking - he doesn’t even know where he’s going - when he hears a noise in the distance - something mechanical - and he shouts again.

“Hello?”

The noise gets louder. Sam tries to run towards it, but it’s like running against the tide - his legs simply won’t move any faster -

And Sam has been here too many times before for the alarm bells not to go off in his head.

_This is a dream_ , he thinks, closing his eyes. _This is a dream. Wake_ up.

When he opens his eyes, though, the view is still the same. Tall green grass as far as the eye can see.

But the noise is getting even louder.

“Hello?” he calls again. “Dean?”

That wasn’t even a reasoned choice, because he and Dean - they’ve grown up together, they’ve hunted together for thirty years, and that means Dean _must_ be out here, _must_ be looking for him -

_Think_ , Sam mouths, as he moves through the gigantic grass as fast he can.

Was it a djinn? A curse? 

(Is it the Cage?)

“No,” Sam says, stopping in his tracks.

It can’t be the Cage - it will _never_ be the Cage, ever again, because Lucifer was _killed_ , Lucifer is _dead_ -

And so is Dean.

The truth washes over him like a deafening wind, and Sam falls to his knees as he remembers everything -

_Come on. You know the drill_ , Dean says, and when Sam hugs him, he can feel the keys of the Impala pressing into his back as his brother’s hand fists into his shirt -

And next, he can’t breathe -

“Milady? Your guest is awake.”

The noise is too loud now, but it’s nothing, _nothing_ compared to the noise inside Sam’s head - the piercing memory of Dean - Dean’s face, Dean’s voice - Dean smiling down at him under the light of a dozen stolen fireworks, Dean rolling his eyes at him, Dean batting his hand away from Baby’s wheel - Dean shaking his head, exasperated (“Swayze always gets a pass.”) - Dean gripping his shoulder so tight it hurts (“Don't you dare think that there is _anything_ , past or present, that I would put in front of you!”) - Dean -

“Sam? Can you hear me? Sam, _stop_ that.”

It’s not Dean’s voice; it’s a woman’s. 

Sam sees Crowley’s face for half a second, which doesn’t make any sense, and then -

“Only half a dose. Go on, then,” says the woman, and then there is a hand in his hair, and Sam turns into it like a cat, hoping - _wishing_ -

“Mom?” he asks, and the woman sighs.

“You can go now, Thomas,” she says, and Sam hears footsteps as Dean’s face fades and the noise around him resolves itself into an airplane engine.

Slowly, he blinks his eyes open.

“Sam? How do you feel?”

The face floating in front of him ( _Too close_ , shouts a voice inside his brain, because ever since the Cage, people touching him is Not a Good Thing) is familiar, but Sam can’t put a name to it. 

He blinks again.

“Why don’t you drink something?” the woman asks, and then (too soon; too late) the hand cradling his cheek is gone and a glass is pressed into his hand instead.

Sam looks down.

There are silver cuffs around his wrists.

And then he remembers.

_Cas?_ he thinks, a bit desperately, closing his eyes. _Cas, are you alright? Castiel, I pray to you, I -_

“You should really have a sip of water, Sam.”

_\- I’m on a plane, Cas, I don’t know what’s happening -_

“It’ll do you a world of good.”

_\- just - be safe, okay? Be_ safe.

Sam keeps his eyes closed, tries to focus.

He’s been shot and he’s been drugged and he’s been tied down. Whatever is in this water, it won’t make the situation worse. Also, he’s sure there are enough people on this plane to force him to drink it if they want to. And his mouth is very dry. He tries to remember which drugs can cause this - most antidepressants, probably, and also antipsychotics - decides it doesn’t matter. 

He needs to play along.

He has no choice.

Slowly, he blinks his eyes open and raises his bound hands to his mouth; drinks a sip of water.

It may very well be the best thing he’s ever tasted.

The relief must show on his face, because the woman - well, she doesn’t smile, exactly, but she seemed less pissed off.

“Better?” she asks, and Sam nods.

“I’d say thanks,” he croaks, “but you shot me and all, so I’m not feeling very grateful.”

“That’s fair.”

Sam takes another sip of water, surreptitiously checks the cuffs (definitely silver, and also engraved with - _shit_ \- Enochian symbols), then looks at the woman in front of him. He still can’t believe she actually _shot_ him. She looks so - well, not _harmless_ , exactly, but she has a different kind of power about her - not the _shooting people_ kind: the _bossing people around_ kind.

Also, she’s clearly loaded.

Not that he’s an expert in women’s fashion or anything, but Dad taught them that sort of thing - how to recognize where people come from, who’s faking it and who’s the real deal - and this woman? Definitely _very_ rich. Her earrings look like they cost more than what they spend in a year.

Also, she’s a professional. She’s clearly aware of what he’s doing, and yet she’s looking back at him levelly, waiting for him to finish his examination. 

“So?” she asks, when he finally looks away, and Sam clenches his jaw.

# ~

This man is something else.

Toni read his file, of course. And it’s fairly complete, considering. There is missing information, of course - months, and even years, where all they have are a few concise lines - Sam’s fingerprints turning up at crime scenes, or a lone CCTV picture so grainy Sam’s only recognizable because of his shaggy hair and his impressive stature - but on the whole, the picture they have is pretty clear.

The reason she’s requested this task? In her opinion, Edward and the others kept underestimating Sam. Not that she’d ever tell them that (not that it’s her place to) - but the heads of the London chapter were always more concerned about Dean. They always saw _Dean_ as the threat, and Sam as someone who was simply tagging along - someone who could easily be broken and remoulded into a useful ally.

They would be glad, no doubt, to know Dean Winchester is dead, because they never wanted _him_. His disappearance (and _how_ , exactly, did Dean die?) actually solves a problem.

Toni looks at Sam looking at her and is pleased to realize her analysis was more accurate than her predecessor’s. This is not a law student who got sucked back into a life he didn’t want, and he’s not a man on the verge of mental illness, courtesy of all the mutilation his soul has endured at Lucifer’s hands.

No, this man is a _threat_ \- is perhaps more dangerous than his legendary brother - but he’s also lonely; deeply, almost unbearably so.

(“Mom?”)

“So?” she asks, and he shakes his head.

“You seem to know everything about me. And I don’t know anything about you.”

Toni smiles.

“Considering you’re wearing handcuffs, not all that surprising.”

Sam passes his fingers on them, frowning at the symbols engraved on the metal.

“Yeah, I don’t know. If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead. And if you want me to work with you, then you have a truly fucked-up way of making friends.”

Toni’s smile widens. She takes in his calculating, challenging gaze and is reminded, again, of Fitz, even though Fitz is a child of nine whose hair is still curling a little and this man is a foot taller than she is and could probably kill everyone on board with his bare hands if that cursed bullet in his body wasn’t subduing him.

“Well, we _do_ things a bit differently across the pond,” she says, “but you’re right, of course: we hope you’ll want to join us.”

“I thought you said you wanted to _control_ me,” he says, slowly, and something in his voice suddenly reminds Toni this is someone who took on an _archangel_ \- and won.

“Do you think you _need_ to be controlled?”

He licks his lips, doesn’t answer.

“You _did_ break the world, Sam,” she points out, and even though she knows that’s not unfair, she still feels cruel.

“We fixed that,” he says.

_And your brother died_ , Toni wants to say. _And therefore, all you went through this year - all those people who died because of the Darkness - that was for nothing. Your brother still_ died.

She can see in his eyes, though, that he’s thinking the same thing - that it’s tearing him apart from the inside out, no matter how much he’s trying to hide it - and this is why she doesn’t say anything.

# ~

Sam sees the thing happen on her face, and is ridiculously grateful to her for not saying what she’s thinking (which is the truth). He can’t bear to think about Dean right now. He just can’t.

Closing his hands into fists, he blurts out the first thing he can think of - he wants - he _needs_ \- to keep the woman taking, to focus on something else - something that is not this black mass deep inside his stomach.

“Can I get your name, at least? Since we’re going to be friends?”

The woman actually smiles, relaxes a little; she sits back, crosses her legs.

“Antonia Bevell,” she says, promptly. “You can call me Toni.”

“Okay - Toni. And you’re a - a Woman of Letters?”

“Indeed.”

“So your whole family is - they’re in the life?”

She hesitates, seemingly considering how much she wants - or is allowed - to tell him.

“My father was one of the elders of the Greenwich chapter,” she says in the end. “And his father before him.”

“Must be nice,” Sam says, before he can help himself; and then he picks up the glass again, drinks another sip of water.

“Pardon?”

“Having someone telling you what to do. Someone who knows what’s going on.”

That thing inside his stomach suddenly becomes so heavy Sam is quite sure he’s going to be sick.

“Dean and I, we never had anyone,” he adds. “Hell, we still don’t know what half of the crap in that Bunker even is.”

He glances at the woman (looking steadily at him), then out of the window. There is a sea of white, fluffy clouds stretching all the way to the horizon. Sam wonders if they’ve already left US territory, and the nausea gets worse - it wouldn’t have been better, perhaps, to be in the Bunker - to see Dean’s things all over the place - but at least _Cas_ would have been there - at least he could have kept working, hunting - and now -

“Do you wish for us to retrieve his body?” the woman - Toni - asks softly.

Sam feels his eyes prickle with tears.

“No need,” he says, clearing his throat. “What he did - it’s - um - likely - he didn’t -”

The thought is too awful to be put into words.

Toni is silent for a moment; then she bends forward, puts her hand on his knee. 

“We have many pictures of him back at the manor. I’ll have the best ones framed, and you can keep them in your room, if you want.”

And Sam really wants to say thanks, but he’s also not about to cry in front of someone who’s shot him and put him in cuffs, so he grits his teeth.

“My room? Or my _cell_?”

The woman sits back, breaking the contact between them. There is something else on her face now - she looks like she’s adding numbers in her mind. Before Sam can decide if he wants to know what she’s thinking, Toni turns to her right, looks back.

“Thomas,” she calls, and a man appears from the seats behind them.

Sam does his best not to react, but he can’t help tightening his fingers on his thighs - now, this guy just screams _I kill people for a living and I’m a fucking pro_ \- like Toni, he’s elegant and understated, but the thing is still clear - in how he stands, in the way he moves. This is the guy who put cuffs on him and carried him bodily up two flights of stairs. This is the guy who won’t hesitate to stab him in the throat if Sam pisses Toni off.

“Milady?” he asks, assuming a well-practiced waiting for orders pose (feet slightly apart, hands behind his back).

“Thomas, would you mind starting on the cataloguing of those books we’ve borrowed from the Kansas chapter?”

Okay, so these guys also _stole_ from them. _Great_. Sam looks out of the window again, but he still feels Thomas’ eyes on him; knows he’s hesitating, because they were both trained (Sam by his Dad, and by Dean - Dean pinning him to the ground, over and over - Dean allowing himself to be tickled to death after a particularly long and difficult session; and this Thomas guy probably by some faceless MI6 goon) and they _recognize_ each other - they know it could very easily come to blows, and if it does -

But this woman - an actual freaking _Lady_ , apparently - is in charge. That’s the difference between them.

“As you wish, Milady.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

Sam keeps staring out of the window as the man walks away; and then Toni moves forward, pours more water into his glass and - she drops her sleek black phone inside the thing.

“What the -”

“Sam, _listen_ to me,” she says, standing up and switching places so they’re sitting side by side. “You’re right: we do want to control you. We want to _train_ you, in fact. We think you have potential. And I think - I want to think we could also be _friends_.”

“Friends?”

“I’ve been watching you for a couple of years, now, and -”

“You’ve been _watching_ me?”

Sam sits up, turns towards her, squares his shoulders - he knows he’s big enough to make people uncomfortable, and this is mostly a downside in his profession, because Dean - God, Dean could always charm his way inside witnesses’ houses, but people would always stop for the space of a heartbeat when they saw Sam, and this is why Sam has learned to keep his shoulders rounded, just a bit, and to smile with his whole face, and even so - and Dean can think all he wants Sam is just a prude who doesn’t know how to pick up waitresses - the truth is, someone like him drinking alone - the double-take is always, always there -

But when he needs it to, his two hundred pounds of muscles come in rather handy.

“You’ve been watching us and you didn’t _think_ \- you didn’t _help_ us? We’ve been trying to cage the fucking Darkness for _months_. What kind of fucked-up hunters are you?”

Toni, Sam is pleased to note, can’t help but tense a little, but, to her credit, she remains right where she is, looks up steadily at him.

“We are not hunters,” she says, “and we had every confidence the problem would be resolved.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because the end of the world is yet to come.”

“ _What_?”

Toni looks away, checks the door disappearing towards the cargo hold, then looks down at her drowned phone.

“Here,” she says, producing a picture from inside her immaculate blazer.

Sam looks down at it.

It’s a child - a boy of eight or nine with blond hair and a wide smile. He’s wearing a school uniform, and there is an arm around his shoulder - someone who could possibly be Toni but was cut off the photograph.

“Your son?” he asks, and, as it happened in the Bunker, he hates himself for how easy it is to manipulate him into good manners, but there’s nothing he can do against it - he’s not about to _kill_ this woman when she’s showing him a picture of her _kid_ , is he?

And what’s up with the cloak and dagger stuff, anyway? Is she really hiding something from her superiors, or is this a trap?

“Not exactly,” she says; and, again she looks up, check they’re actually alone. “Fitz is -”

She doesn’t look nervous, but Sam’s too well-trained not to sniff it on her.

“Fitz is what?” he asks, because it’s clear they don’t have much time, and even if this is a trap, the more information he gets, the better.

“I suppose you are familiar with Arthurian legends,” Toni finally says, pursing her lips. “Fitz is - the once and future king. The one who was promised.”

“ _What_?”

The thing makes no sense.

Or, it _would_ make no sense if his life was less fucked up than it actually is.

“We don’t know when the battle will happen. It could be as little as ten years,” Toni continues, ignoring Sam’s question, “which means Fitz needs to be trained, and the truth is -”

Toni looks down at the picture, then tucks it back into her pocket.

“You know more about what’s out there than we do. I mean, we _do_ have the occasional contact with Crowley, of course,” she says, and Sam almost rolls his eyes, because, fucking _Crowley_ , “and we did manage to trap an angel once, but other than that - we need _more_. Fitz must be ready - what comes will be the final battle between Good and Evil. We can’t afford to lose.”

Sam can’t help it: he snorts, relaxes back into his seat.

“So, what? You want me to train him? What about _Merlin_?” he adds, unable not to feel like an asshole but squashing the thing down.

Okay, and now she’s angry.

“Mind your _tone_. I’ve been honest with you, and I told you more than I should have. My orders were simply to bring you in - I am not privy to the training you are to receive -” she adds, and there is something inside the word which implies chains and needles and electricity straight to his brain, “but, as I said, I have been watching you for two years now, and I do believe your heart is in the right place. I would strongly invite you to join us of your own volition. We are on the same side, Sam, and it would be a mistake to -”

The door to the cargo hold creaks open, and Toni acts very quickly - she stands up, tips the glass over so its content splashes all over the floor - with a swift movement, she grabs the bottle, wets the hem of her skirt for good measure - and then she huffs loudly, starts walking towards her bodyguard (or, maybe, well, just a guard) just as the man emerges from the other room.

“Thomas, do you know if we packed our emergency phone? Our guest is so terribly _clumsy_ \- that medication must have made him dizzy.”

Thomas looks straight at Sam, then, but Sam turns his head away, stares out of the window.

The clouds seem as solid as snowy hills, and Sam wonders if the world has changed beneath them - _how_ the world will change beneath them. Everything is different, after all. God is dead.

(So is Dean.)

He forces his mind away from that train of thought, thinks about the child instead - the once and future king. 

He doesn’t know if Toni is even telling the truth, but Sam has to admit he’s curious - he’s always been more curious than Dean about this secret society they stumbled their way into - and there is a certain quiet anticipation in thinking about what lies ahead - if nothing else, these guys’ library will be _huge_.

And Dean wouldn’t have wanted him to give up.

No, if this lady is not lying and Sam’s really getting a room to himself, he will try to find a way to lock the door and drink to his brother’s memory for a few hours and give in to this black weight inside his chest and wish he were dead; and then he will wake up the next morning and shove it all back and try to figure stuff out. He will find Cas - hell, he will contact _Crowley_ , if he has to - and he will keep working cases.

And a boy king - well, that’s a case.

Sam closes his eyes as Toni sits back in front of him, and he breathes in and out, in and out, stepping away from all those things it’s not yet time to address - away from Lucifer, away from God, away from Cas, away from _Dean_ \- focuses on the dull pain radiating from his shoulder instead, on the cold feeling of the cuffs around his wrists, and he forces himself to be ready for whatever comes next, because this is the life he’s chosen for himself, and he’s not giving it up. 

He can't.


	2. There's No Love (Like Your Love)

When Cas comes to, he finds he’s on his back, looking up at a clear blue sky.

He still has his Grace, which is how he knows he’s still somewhere in the United States, but more than that, he can’t tell. He stares up at the sky for a second, hoping for - a sign, or a message - but the thing stares unblinkingly back, so Cas sits up, looks around.

“Sam?” he calls, because he has to; but he knows Sam is nowhere near him.

The spell is designed to work on angels, after all.

Cas tries to focus, because this is the last thing Dean ever asked of him, and he’s determined not to let Dean down - but part of him wishes he could just remain where he is and cross his legs and pray - retreat into himself, or power down, as Dean used to call it - allow time and space to wash over him, allow the world to age and change around him until all the humans he knows here on Earth - Sam and Claire, of course, but also those other people Dean would sometimes mentione with a soft look in his eyes - Jody and Donna and Garth and everyone else - was dead and buried, their names forgotten, their memories truly gone.

Because the thing is, Cas can’t _stand_ it.

Before Dean, Earth was just a place.

Now, Earth is _Dean_ ’s place. Everything around him speaks of Dean - the green of these leaves is the green of Dean’s eyes, and the blue sky above him is the same sky that stretched over them both so many times before; the wind murmurs Dean’s name, and every drop of dew speaks in Dean’s voice, because air and water are eternal and unchangeable, and within them lives a perfect reflection of every living thing.

And people, of course, are even _worse_. 

Back in that bar, Cas hadn’t even been able to _look_ at Sam, because Dean’s love is clamped all over Sam’s soul like bark on a tree - and later - later Cas had closed his hand around his angel blade, had felt it cut his skin, only just, the pain distracting him from Dean’s memories shining all over Sam’s body as Sam walked in front of him, opened the door of the Bunker with a tired, barely there gesture.

(The Bunker: the place where Dean had almost killed him; the place where Dean had comforted him; the place where he’d hoped, one day, to make a home.)

No, the last thing Cas wants is to go back to Sam, because he can’t bear it; but this is what Dean wanted, and there is no way around that.

Cas stands up, dusts pine needles off his trench coat.

_Sam?_ he calls, inside his own mind; but of course, that’s not how it works.

There is no bond between him and Sam -

\- there is a bond of human friendship between him and Sam, which means the thing cuts deep, down to Cas’ bones, and, at the same time, it pales in comparison to what is between him and Dean - it’s nowhere close enough to the music Dean’s soul and his own Grace make when they are standing side by side (and could Dean hear that? probably not) -

\- which means Cas could hear Sam if Sam prayed, but he can’t hear Sam wanting him close, and Sam can’t hear Cas calling him.

_You do help, Cas_ , Dean had said, glancing at him in that half way he had, as though fearing Cas would randomly light up and the thing would be too bright for him to survive; but he’d been wrong.

He doesn’t help. 

Right now, he had one job - one thing left to do with his life - and he messed up.

_Sam is strong_ , he thinks.

He frowns, then, pictures the woman who’d lain in wait for them - he’s only seen her for a second, but, of course, he has perfect memory, and her face is clear inside his mind. 

She wasn’t a demon, or anything else. Cas would have smelled it on her. No, she was human, which means she was either a witch of a hunter - a Woman of Letters, actually, because no one else could have known how to find the Bunker (how to _enter_ the Bunker). And a witch wouldn’t have used a sigil to banish him when a spell would have done the trick.

A Woman of Letters, then. Also, not American - the organization had been very nearly wiped out in the United States. More likely, she’d belonged to a European chapter.

Cas closes his eyes for a second, recalls her face, her bone structure, the colours floating around her blond hair.

English, he decides. And from a very old family at that.

Which means, surely, that Sam is fine? A fellow scholar of the occult would have no reason to harm him. She’d banished _him_ , yes, but such people are always a bit paranoid, and it’s difficult to fault them for that -

(Cas suddenly remembers Dean closing his hand around the demon’s knife; Dean stepping up to him, Dean saying, “Yeah, thanks for that,” before plunging the blade deep inside his chest.)

\- given what they see every day; the dangers they face.

Still, it doesn’t matter. Cas has promised Dean he would look after Sam, and this is what he intends to do.

He looks up, searching for -

The eagle doesn’t even feel him coming in. Cas tucks himself into a corner its mind, does his best not to disturb it. Not that the eagle is doing anything productive - it’s simply enjoying the wind under its wings, because its belly is full, and the day is almost done - but still, it would be impolite on his part to make his presence known.

He does use the eagle’s eyes, though. He watches and watches, spying on the roads barely visible under the forest canopy, and tries to calculate which one is closest, and where they lead. 

As soon as he has his answer, he steps back into his own body, passes his hands through his hair, grounding himself, and then starts walking.

The best path lies West - five miles between the trees, and then a track road, and then a proper road, and, maybe, cars. With some luck, he can hitch a ride to some kind of city, and then make his way back to Kansas. Judging from the lakes he’d spotted in the distance, he’s somewhere inside the Superior National Park - he can be back to Kansas in three days, and then -

Cas keeps walking, but something inside his mind dents and falls apart.

Then he will live in the Bunker. With Sam. He will pass in front of Dean’s door, every day. He will see the chair where Dean used to sit, every day. He will find little signs of Dean all over the place for _months_ to come - cans of his favourite beer and shirts he’d forgotten somewhere and that soft-smelling product he used on his hair (Cas had seen it in the shower - a yellow bottle with a peeled off label; he knows Sam teased Dean about it, because it’s a no tears shampoo, but he never understood why not crying every time one washes one’s hair should be a privilege reserved to children).

As he walks, the forest getting darker and darker around him, Cas wonders what will happen to all that stuff.

He knows it is not done to keep everything - people donate clothes, hold on to valuable and personal items (books and jewelry), display a randomly chosen memento (mostly photographs) and throw the rest away (grooming items, old documents, knick-knacks). He thinks about boxing up Dean’s clothes and leaving them in front of Lebanon’s second-hand shop - thinks about strange men wearing Dean’s rock t-shirts, Dean’s plaid shirt; Dean’s jeans and Dean’s jackets - and he knows he doesn’t want that.

He wants to keep everything. 

He wants to seal Dean’s room so there will always be a faint trace of Dean inside - Dean’s smell, and the imprint of Dean’s soul against the sheets and the walls and the solid, no-nonsense chest of drawers - he wants to be able to sit on that bed every time he wants to and breathe it all in, fool himself into pretending Dean is coming back.

But, of course, it’s not his call.

Sam is - was - Dean’s brother, and Cas - Cas is nothing.

(Nothing at all, and fading into an even paler mess with every passing minute.)

Sam should decide what he wants to do with everything, and if Sam decides, as humans so often do, that keeping these things hurts him too much, then Sam will get rid of it all - and Cas will help him.

Because Cas made a promise, and he will keep it.

As a restless night falls around him, Cas keeps walking - the darkness doesn’t bother him, of course - and his thoughts are so full of Dean he thinks he can still feel him (hear him).

Because Cas is used to feeling Dean’s soul pressed up against his Grace - he started feeling that the first moment he put his hand on Dean in Hell, and it took him a long time to get used to the sensation - it was distracting at first, bothersome, even, because humans are changeable, fickle creatures, and Cas could almost _taste_ Dean’s moods even when they weren’t together - and then, of course, it had become second nature to live with that, and even tune it down after Dean had asked him not to ‘read his mind’, as he’d put it. Which means Cas hasn’t sensed Dean’s emotions for years, now, but that connection between them - the weight of Dean’s soul against his Grace - that he cannot lift, nor does he want to.

And he can still feel it now.

It’s possible that Dean’s soul has survived in some form - most probably in the Empty, and there’s no coming back from that - but it may very well be wishful thinking on Cas’ part, because this time Dean is well and truly gone, and his - his _love_ fpr Dean will not be enough to bring him back.

(Cas destroyed the world twice to spare Dean pain, to bring him back, and now the world is - miraculously - back in balance, and Dean was very clear - he didn’t want Cas, or Sam, to try and look for him. What he wanted? His ashes scattered over his mother’s grave, and some kind of actor delivering a eulogy. Sam had agreed to these conditions, and Cas now wonders if that had been a joke between the brothers, because he doesn’t see the point in paying someone who didn’t even know Dean to make a speech in an empty park.

And also, he wanted Cas to look after Sam.

So this is what he’ll do.)

_Cas, you there?_ says Dean’s voice, and Cas grits his teeth against it. _Pal, you got your ears on?_

The thing is, it feels real, but it’s an echo. 

It must be.

Cas used to get them all the time after Dean became a demon and disappeared with Crowley. He knew Dean was no longer calling for him - he’d begged Sam to let him go, and Cas had felt Dean’s soul turn red and black and fill with a brutal, wild joy - and yet he’d still heard him from time to time - he would wake up at night, Hannah fast asleep in the second bed, and just lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling as Dean’s voice - most of the time, some drunken, out of tune song - filled his heart and and pressed up all the way to his mouth.

_I’m too sexy for my shirt_ , Dean had said, one night, and Cas had basked, hungrily, in the foolishness of it; _I’m too sexy for your party, no way I’m disco dancing_ , Dean had said next, and it had been so loud, Cas had almost wondered how Hannah could sleep through it.

But, of course, this bond they had between them? Something just about _them_. His brothers and sisters had never understood it, because it should never have existed in the first place. 

An angel, bonded to a mortal: an abomination.

_Cas, if you can hear this, call me. I’m not - hang on_ , Dean’s voice says inside his brain, and then, mercifully, it goes silent.

Cas stops for a second, places his right hand on a pine trunk, slows his breathing to match the tree’s; tries to calm himself down.

Dean is _gone_ , and it’s okay. Dean was _mortal_. He _was_ always supposed to die.

And Cas can take this.

He _must_.

After that, Cas never stops anymore. He walks and walks, and he barely notices it when the soft forest floor gives way to the more even terrain of a track road, and then to tarmac.

Dean’s voice echoes inside his mind from time to time, but it’s mostly unfocused - a thing of quiet joy and awe and longing - and Cas pays it no mind.

And then, then _Sam_ prays to him. 

_Cas? Cas, are you alright? Castiel, I pray to you, I - I’m on a plane, Cas, I don’t know what’s happening - just - be safe, okay? Be_ safe.

Cas stops in the middle of the road, looks up, almost expecting to see that plane standing out against the rosy morning sky - because Sam’s voice had been so close, so _urgent_ \- but, of course, there is nothing.

Sam had sounded afraid, and Cas’s whole being crumples at the thought - _This is on me_ , he thinks, a bit incoherently; and, again, he unsheathes his blade, passes his fingers on the edge, because this is something he’s learned from Dean and it _works_ \- pain is not something he ever gave a thought about, because, of course, he was created to fight - to inflict blows and to withstand blows - but Dean had taught him, without even being aware of it, that pain can be _used_ \- and Cas uses it now, he focuses on it - he breathes in, then out -

So that woman is bringing Sam back to London. That is the most likely explanation to Sam’s prayer. Which means Cas was correct in his assumption - she means Sam no harm. If she’d wanted him dead, she would have killed him (or tried to, Cas thinks, with a hint of pride, because his boys can give as good as they get); instead, she’s taking him to another Men of Letters house. They probably need his help, or his expertise. After all, Sam is special - he was created to be Lucifer’s vessel, and he’s seen God - he’s _understood_ God, perhaps, and certainly better than any of them.

The fact she’s kidnapping Sam instead of simply asking for his assistance is bizarre; but, then again, humans are bizarre. Nothing new there.

And nothing to worry about either; at least, not yet.

Still, Cas dislikes the idea of Sam being in pain.

He tries to push back against Sam’s consciousness, but he feels nothing, because, of course, they are no connected. Sam can reach out to him, and will reach out to him, if things change, but all Cas can do is - Cas can go after him. Can can get on a plane, because, of course, his wings are burned down to the bone (and it’s a constant, dull pain he’s done his best to forget about); but, Dean has taught him how to do these things. How to buy a plane ticket, how to pretend he has a right to be there with those other people ( _real_ people, that is).

Still standing in the middle of the road, he pushes his hands deep inside his pockets, finds the fake passport Sam had made for him when they’d needed him to go to Israel. He opens the thing, stares at his own face; at the name next to it (Steve Seger).

He still remembers the whole thing - Sam had done a sort of blueprint for it, then he’d disappeared for three days as he went to see someone who could actually _print_ it, because it needed to be done right, to work across international borders, and while the Bunker _did_ have a printing press - Dean had tried to print money during their few huntless weeks, with mixed results - the machine was too old and nowhere near sophisticated enough to mimic a modern passport.

When Sam had come back, carrying bags and bags of groceries and even a duffel filled with brand new clothes, Dean had been in the shower, so Cas had helped Sam to put everything away, trying to ignore the way Sam had been looking at him as he was trying to understand the best strategy to make everything fit in the Bunker’s fridge.

“How have you been?” Sam had asked him, leaning back against the kitchen shelves, and Cas had shrugged.

(How he’d been: just a mind, really - a mind full of black, slimy stuff. An angel without mission or purpose. A failed creature. An abomination.)

“Here is your passport. Maybe we can look at flights later this evening? If you still want to go, of course,” Sam had added, and he’d come closer, he'd put his hand on Cas’ arm (his fingers had been very warm; his soul had carried that outside smell Cas associated with the Impala and wide open spaces and Sam’s good mood).

“I will go,” he’d said, and since Sam had handed him the passport open on the first page, his eyes had fallen on the name next to his own face.

“Bob Seger is Dean’s favourite singer,” Sam had said, noticing his gaze, and Cas had nodded.

Next, he’d heard the water turning off, and Dean’s humming getting a bit louder as he stepped out of the shower and started to pat himself dry.

“Dean will be here in about five minutes,” he’d said, because he’d assumed that was why Sam had been talking about his brother.

“Cas -”

It’s been almost a year, but Cas still remembers the hesitation in Sam’s eyes; how Sam had passed his hand through his hair (something Dean also did when he was uncomfortable) before shaking his head, finishing his sentence with slow, careful words.

“Dean and I - we also have passports. Just in case, you know. And Dean’s - Dean’s is made under his favourite alias - Freddie Seger. That’s the name he uses whenever he can get away with it - whenever he’s sure they’re not writing it down, so there will be no record of it.”

“I see,” Cas had said, not seeing anything.

“I’m just saying - that’s the first alias Dean ever picked for himself. Freddie after Freddie Mercury, you know? And Seger. For Bob Seger,” he'd said, even if he’d already explained this. 

Cas had nodded; looked down at the document again.

“And for you - you said you had no preference, so I asked _him_ \- he said you’d chosen the name Steve when you were human, and when he had to pick a last name -”

Cas had read the thing one last time (Steve Seger) before closing the passport and pocketing it.

“Thank you, Sam,” he’d said, because Sam hadn’t finished his sentence, but hadn’t added anything else, either.

Later that evening, Dean had fussed and laughed at his new identity, but Cas had been too far gone to make too much of it.

Once in the plane, though - once he’d looked down at the white clouds below him and had felt a bit more like himself, because this is what he used to be - a creature of air and light - once he’d been on the plane he’d looked at the thing again, and he’d understood what Sam had been trying to tell him, and Dean’s odd flush.

Freddie Seger. Steve Seger.

The same last name.

That normally meant kinship - or marriage.

Cas had stared at the piece of paper for a long time, but he’d never asked Dean about it. Whatever Sam had wanted to imply, if Dean had been interested in any of that - words of love, or a physical relationship - then he would have asked. 

(There could be no doubt, surely, as to Cas’ response?)

_Cas_ , comes Dean’s voice again, and all of a sudden it’s too much - this document in his hands, proof that (perhaps) Dean had wanted the same thing Cas wanted (a home for Cas at the Bunker), and these echoes of Dean’s presence inside his mind when he knows perfectly well that Dean is - that Dean will _never_ -

Stuffing the passport back inside his pocket, Cas starts walking again. He doesn’t need rest or sustenance, but still - there is a certain weariness clinging to his skin as he finally manages to flag down a car and hitch a ride back to Duluth.

From there, he moves South, to Minneapolis, and then - then he stops, suddenly uncertain.

He could continue further South, down to Kansas, and go back to the Bunker (but why would he go there? it’s empty); or he could go the other way, to Chicago, catch an international flight to London (he still has a fake credit card, and he’s almost sure he knows how to buy a ticket by himself). 

He’s promised Dean he would look after Sam, but he doesn’t know where Sam _is_ , exactly. What if he goes all the way to England and the plane Sam was on was flying somewhere else entirely?

It would make a lot more sense to wait at the Bunker for Sam to pray to him again.

But the Bunker -

In the end, Cas boards a bus to Sioux Falls.

He has the address in his phone, and it’s not hard to find the house; it still feels like years have passed since he woke up alone in that forest, though, which is why he doesn’t even check the time before dragging himself to the front door and knocking.

As he stands there, waiting for an answer, he listens, a bit absently, to the song of the birds and the flowers, and he realizes it’s way too early in the morning to be calling on anyone.

Before he can walk away, though, someone opens the door.

It’s a woman (not Claire). She has a kind face and a no-nonsense haircut, and her soul is very, very bright. Cas can see the marks of grief, and also the stronger hues of hope and joy and love shimmering all over it.

“Yes?” she asks, her voice heavy with sleep.

“Hello, Jody.”

The woman’s face gets warier, then her eyebrows raise in surprise (and a hint of fear) as she takes him in, her eyes hesitating on the trench coat, the blue tie, and, finally, his face.

“My _God_ ,” she says, taking a step back.

“Not quite,” smiles Cas. “May I come in?”

“I - yes, of course, just - _Claire_ ,” she calls, turning around, and then she turns back, clearly unwilling to face away from him. “Claire, get _down_ here.”

Cas comes in, closes the door behind him. He’s exhausted - not physically, of course - he’s just - he’s tired, because Dean’s soul is growing ever heavier against him, and he can’t shut off Dean’s longing, even though he knows it’s not real - just a memory his mind is sustaining despite his will.

“Do you have coffee?” he asks, because Jody is just standing there, gaping at him.

“You - you drink coffee?”

“I enjoy the taste.”

“I didn’t know you could - I’ll put a pot on right away.”

As she disappears in the kitchen, the stairs creak and Cas sees Claire making her way down - he sees her soul first, a pale gold full of possibilities, and then her legs (jeans, naked feet, bright green nail polish), her torso (a Hot Topical t-shirt with some kind of animal in shades of black and grey) and then her face, her blue eyes, her blond hair (pinned in a messy braid).

“Cas?” she asks, stopping on the top step, and Cas smiles.

He can’t help it. He knows Jimmy Novak is gone from this body, but something still connects him to Claire, and he’s never been happier to see her.

“Claire,” he answers, his smile widening, and next Claire starts walking again; she comes closer, so close Cas thinks she will hug him, but then she stops, and her eyes go very soft, then very hard.

“What are you doing here? Are Dean and Sam okay?”

Once upon a time, Cas would not have realized the profound pain his news would inflict upon Claire; after all, after he’d possessed her father’s body, he’d walked away without a second glance, barely aware of the little girl shouting after him from the driveway.

Now, though, he understands pain (he feels it himself).

“It’s a long story,” he says. “Are we alone?”

Jody comes out of the kitchen, three empty cups in her hands.

“Alex is in Bismarck. College visit,” she says, and Cas has to stop and think who Alex is.

“I see.”

“And I can - I can go to work early, if you want to be alone with Claire.”

There is an interrogative tone in her statement, and her gaze shifts to Claire, as if to ask her if this is what she wants.

“No, you should stay,” Cas says, because he can see glimpses of Dean’s touch all over Jody’s soul and he understand how much Dean had cared for her.

And so they sit down at the table, all three of them, as Cas tries to explain what happened and why. He mostly looks down at the table, bone tired and completely empty, and he can feel the women’s souls becoming heavier and heavier, though neither Jody nor Claire react in any way to his words.

It takes him thirty minutes and two cups of heavily sugared coffee to finally get it all out (or, maybe, not _all_ : simply what they need to know to understand that Dean is gone), and when he finally falls silent, Jody stands up, disappears for a minute, comes back with a tin of biscuits.

She remains standing for a full minute, the metal box in her hands, before slamming it down on the table.

“That _idiot_ ,” she says, angrily. “I _asked_ him what they were up to - I can’t _believe_ they sat there and talked about _birth_ control when - when -”

Claire turns away.

“Jody -”

“Why do they _always_ have to try and solve everything on their _fucking_ own?”

Cas shakes his head. It’s several things, and he’s sure Jody knows this as well as he does. It’s them not wanting to put anyone else in danger, and also them dealing with forces way too powerful for someone like Jody or Claire - people who are brave and fearless and will face a monster to save a stranger’s life, but have never tried resisting something that cannot be resisted.

Suddenly, Lucifer’s presence passes over Cas’ mind, like a cloud over the sun.

But like Dean’s voice, it’s an illusion, nothing more. Lucifer is gone.

Still, Cas closes his fingers more firmly around his third cup of hot coffee.

Claire has gotten her phone out. Cas can sense her tears coming as she tries and tries both Dean’s and Sam’s numbers and is sent to voicemail.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softly, and Claire pushes her braid behind her shoulder, then puts her hand on Cas’ wrist.

“Do you need a place to stay?” she asks, and Cas frowns at her.

“This is Jody’s house,” he points out.

“Which means you’re welcome. I mean, you’re Dean’s -” starts Jody, and then she stops, closes her hands into fists, stands up.

“You can stay for as long as you want,” she says, before disappearing into the kitchen again.

“I need to find Sam,” Cas says, breathing through their pain; both wishing and not wishing they would give free rein to it.

“Jody can look into that at the office. Planes leave a trace - even private jets. It should be fairly simple to figure out where it’s headed.”

“Good.”

They remain silent for a while. 

Claire’s hand is still on his wrist, and Cas keeps his eyes on it - he looks at the few cuts on her skin; at the chipped and bitten off black nail polish which shines and then fades on her nails turning them into an out of tune keyboard.

“I’m sorry,” he says in the end, and that is when Claire starts crying - she clenches her teeth together, trying not to make any noise, but after a while she has to let go of Cas’ wrist to fish a tissue out of her pocket.

“Yeah, well,” she says, after she’s blown her nose. “He did have terrible taste in movies.”

“You think so?” Cas asks, and Claire shakes her head, almost laughs.

“God, you’re just -” she says; and, like Jody, she doesn’t finish her sentence.

After that, it’s sort of a long day.

Cas is talked into ‘resting’ in Alex’s bedroom and he ends up sitting on her bed, his back against the wall, a Bible lying, unopened, on the striped bedcover.

_Where are you, man?_

This is Dean again. Cas gives in to it for a second, wondering if a day will come when he will forget what Dean’s voice sounded like -

(He can’t imagine he ever will.)

\- before pushing back against it.

He tries to think about other things, but he keeps coming back to Dean, like a tide lapping away at sand before being pulled back into the sea.

He remembers Dean calling out to him in Hell, his soul so pure and bright Cas had sensed it from miles away, had cleared whole rooms of demons just to get closer to it (it was, still is, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen).

He remembers sitting next to Dean in a playground, almost blinded by the love coming off Dean like heat (love for the kids playing on the swings, love for his brother; love for that sunny day stretching all around them; love, perhaps, even for Cas himself, simply because he was part of that day).

He remembers when Dean had first touched him because he'd wanted to - they’d been in some alley, and Cas hadn’t understood, exactly, what had been going on, but Dean had laughed and laughed and finally put an arm around his shoulders, leaning a bit into him, smiling down at him.

Cas closes his eyes. Breathes in, then out.

Angels don’t cry, so he couldn’t force himself to even if he wanted to. 

The pain, though, is real.

_Thank you. For everything._

Suddenly unable to remain still a moment longer, Cas stands up, walks to the window, looks outside (it’s an ordinary day of sun and wind and cars passing in the road, then disappearing), then bends over Alex’s desk, his eyes passing blindly on the things scattered over the dark wood -

\- college brochures, a folder labelled _Math_ , a sheet of music, some drawings; a blank paper with two lines on it ( _My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore / But after one such love, can love no more._ ); a dried flower -

\- before his phone vibrates inside his pocket and he stands back up, passes his hand across his eyes, picks up.

“Yes?” he says.

“ _Dean_ just called,” Jody says, and she sounds both fearful and elated.

The words take a long time to get inside his head; to become meaning.

“ _What_?” he asks; and then adds, mostly to himself, “It’s not possible. It must be a trick.”

If Crowley is doing this, he thinks, he will reach into his chest and rip his heart out, and never mind that Dean would have wanted the demon to live.

“Look, I don’t know - he sounded - it was _him_. He said God,” Jody makes a pause, as if trying to wrap her head around the concept, “God and the Darkness made up, disappeared together. He said his mother is back.”

“ _What_?”

Nothing about this makes any sense.

Still, Cas allows himself to feel Dean’s presence again, is almost deafened by the light of Dean’s soul, by the strong, pink colour of his voice ( _Cas? For fuck’s sake, man, where are you?_ ).

“He was almost hysterical - well, not _hysterical_ , you know Dean,” Jody goes on, and Cas grips the wood of the desk so tightly it breaks under his fingers, because, yes, he _does_ know Dean, he -

“Said he got to the Bunker, found an angel banishing sigil and a pool of blood - the whole place had been ransacked, papers and books everywhere -”

“Where is he?” Cas whispers.

“On his way. He bitched about the Impala - couldn’t find the keys, had to -”

Cas stops listening to her, because Dean’s voice is louder and louder against his Grace.

_What the fuck is going on? Why are you at Jody’s? Where is Sam? Cas, Jesus_ Christ -

_Dean_ , Cas thinks, focusing his every ounce of love into the word, and Dean’s angry outburst inside his mind stops abruptly.

There is no reason for it, of course.

Dean can’t hear him.

He’s only human, after all.

“Jody?” he says, into the phone. “Do you have a number?”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you - do you have something to write with?” Jody asks, and then seems to realize her mistake, scoffs into the phone. “Sorry, I mean - you know what I meant.”

Cas almost smiles at her embarrassment - _would_ smile if he didn’t feel on the very edge of something very dark and very deep - and listens to the string of numbers she is now listing before thanking her, hanging up.

There is something very heavy inside his chest, and he waits for it to become lighter before trying to call Dean, because if Jody is _mistaken_ \- if _Dean_ -

His phone rings again. Cas closes his eyes, presses the green icon.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And now, as broken glasses show_   
>  _A hundred lesser faces, so_   
>  _My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,_   
>  _But after one such love, can love no more._
> 
> John Donne


	3. Take Me As I Am (Take My Life)

Dean can’t help it - he glances at his mom as he drives, drinking her in, still not daring to believe that she’s actually here (that she’s staying).

“Keep your eyes on the road, Dean,” she says, after the fifth time she catches him looking.

“I am,” he lies, relaxing back into the seat.

“And keep both hands on the wheel. I didn’t come back from the dead to end up in a ditch.”

“Hey, I’m a good driver.”

His mom scoffs at that.

“I guess John taught you,” she says, unenthusiastically.

Dean glances at her again, then back at the road.

“Dad had his problems, but he knew his way around cars.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees his mom turning away from him; sees her hands tighten on her lap, as if she’s trying very hard not to say what she actually thinks about that.

But, of course, thirty years of solitude: not a good recipe to learn self-restraint.

“So, how old were you? When he taught you?” she asks, not looking at him.

Dean frowns at the back of her head, then notices he’s got one hand resting idly on the stick, puts it back on the wheel.

“Fifteen,” he lies, and she scoffs again.

“ _Dean_ ,” she says, turning towards him.

He tightens his jaw.

“Thirteen.”

She glares at him, and he can feel her eyes boring a hole right through his skull.

“Alright, alright. I was nine, okay? But someone had to learn! Sometimes Dad was too hurt to drive, or needed a getaway car -”

“I can’t believe that _bastard_ raised you two as hunters,” Mary says, and she’s not shouting, exactly, but it’s that tone of voice which shuts Dean right up.

Also, there was a plural there, but it’s only the two of them in the car, because, yeah.

They drive in silence for another five minutes before Mary speaks again, the rage almost completely drained from her voice.

“Are you sure Sammy is okay?”

“Cas thinks he is,” Dean says, shifting a bit uneasily in his seat.

Not that Cas had sounded peachy about it; then again, Cas was not a peachy kind of person, so.

“And you trust him?”

Dean doesn’t even need to think about that.

“With my life,” he says, and, again, he can feel his mom x-raying him. “What?” he asks, turning towards her.

“I don’t want to sound old-fashioned,” she says, “but Dean - he’s not _human_. How can you -”

“I trust Cas with my _life_ ,” says Dean again, interrupting her.

Mary bites her lower lip, twists her hands on her lap.

“Do you trust him with your _brother_ ’s life?”

And this is something else that’s easy to answer, because it doesn’t matter, really, if Sam has been kidnapped and is midway over the Atlantic by now. It wasn’t Cas’ fault.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, very firmly. “Yes, I trust Cas with Sam’s life.”

“Okay.”

Mary doesn’t add anything else, for which Dean is grateful. Unable to help himself, he looks at her again.

“You sure you don’t want to stop somewhere and buy something?” he asks, when she catches him looking.

“I spent thirty years in an empty house,” she points out. “I don’t really care about playing dress up.”

The thing is, Dean had been so shocked to see her a change of clothes had been the last thing on his mind as well. After a short and crazy conversation at the edge of a parking lot (and a tight hug and a good cry), he’d hot-wired a car and they’d headed directly for the Bunker (for some reason, Amara had zapped him in Southern California). His mom had been confused at first, sleepy and completely out of it; and then, when she’d started to feel normal again, she’d refused to stop, even for meals, because the idea of seeing Sam again - the idea of Sam back in some bunker, alone and grieving (they hadn’t been able to reach Sam’s phone) had been absolutely unbearable.

(For both of them.)

And so Mary had remained in her nightgown, and Dean had parked the car for about ten minutes in a place in the middle of nowhere to stop and buy a weird assortment of snacks (his mom had scoffed at all of them, but that had made him smile like a lunatic, because aren’t moms supposed to do that?) and five bottles of iced coffee, and never mind t-shirts or pants or anything of the sort.

But when they’d arrived at the Bunker, of course, they hadn’t found anyone.

Dean had been sort of expecting it, truth be told - Dean’s phone had been fried (it had probably happened when Rowena had pushed those souls inside him), but he’d still tried and call them both from an old call box - and, yeah, Sam not answering his phone and Cas not answering his phone _or_ Dean’s prayers was never a good sign - but he’d tried to keep his chin up for his mom, hoping against hope they were both just drunk or something - he’d kept his fingers crossed even as he’d stepped inside the place, shouted for Sam, then for Cas.

And then he’d seen the faded sigil on the wall - and, next, the blood - he’d tried to turn back, shield his mom from it - but, of course, she was both a hunter and Sammy’s mom, and she wasn’t about to -

So they’d remained only long enough for Mom to find herself some clean clothes - some weird, high waist khaki pants and a pale blue blouse and some shoes - boots, of course, because those Gals of Letters didn’t fool around - the leather had been stiff and unyielding, but by the time Dean had finished to scope out the place, Mom had found some kind of greasy lotion and declared the shoes were perfectly fine, and to please stop gaping and keep looking for Sam instead.

He’d fished out of of his emergency phone and he’d gone straight for Jody, which had paid off - Dean had never seriously considered the idea Cas could be hurt - he’d seen the sigil, after all, and knew what it did - but the idea of Cas alone and unhappy and lost somewhere had still twisted his guts and windpipe into knots.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” he’d said, mindful of his mom staring at him - his _mom_ , Jesus _Christ_ , dressed like Amelia fucking Earhart and watching him like a hawk - of all the times Sammy had to go and get himself in trouble -

Because Dean had been too giddy at that unexpected turn of events (his own survival, why not; but, mostly: his mother, alive - his mother, back by his side) to even _consider_ what Sam had been going through while Dean had the road trip of his life and listened to family stories and shared (very, very reluctantly) some of the stuff they’d been up to.

But Sam must have been _devastated_.

(Cas too.)

And now a fucking _kidnapping_ , of all things.

“Look, we’ll be at Jody’s in less than an hour, and then - she’s a sheriff - if a plane has taken off with Sam on board, she’ll know.”

“And how do you know her?” his mom asks, and this is how mothers speak in fucking movies, man, and Dean is so happy he could literally take off - this is that fucking _How did you meet him_ and _What do his parents do_ kind of talk he’d heard all of his girls complain about -

“She was a friend of Bobby’s,” he says, even if it isn’t strictly true.

“Bobby - Bobby _Singer_?” his mom asks, and her words are so sharp they could sever a vamp’s head right off his neck.

“Yeah, but -”

“Do _you_ know Bobby Singer?”

“Knew. He’s -” Dean clears his throat, forces the words out, “He’s dead now. Almost four years.”

Mary mumbles something that sound suspiciously like _Good riddance_ , and Dean turns around sharply, changes gears a bit too aggressively.

“Hey, if it wasn’t for Bobby -”

“I bet he’s the one who taught your father about hunting. _Goddammit_.”

Dean frowns, looks back at the road.

“Nah. I think that was Missouri. And Jim,” he adds. “Father Murphy, I mean.”

His mom’s lips have practically disappeared inside her face. Dean scrambles for something to say, anything, really, and blurts out something exceedingly stupid.

“It’s alright. Really. We both like the job. And, anyway, if Dad hadn’t taken it up, Sammy would be ruling Hell now.”

“ _What_?”

And, yeah, so Dean is an idiot who can’t keep his pie hole shut and the cat is out of the bag.

Dean sighs, then turns the radio on - for comfort, because he’s a fucking coward and a mess - as he starts telling his mom a second, slightly less edited version about Yellow Eyes and his plans for Sam.

By the time he’s finished, they’re parking in front of Jody’s house and Mary is _not_ amused.

“It doesn’t make it alright,” she says, struggling with her seatbelt (Dean reaches over, clicks it open for her, his fingers lingering on her wrist for a second). “I can’t believe John would - _Jesus_.”

And that is the moment Cas picks to appear in the door; he stands there uncertainly for a second, as though wondering how a human would behave in such a situation (your - your best friend coming back alive from his suicide mission, and bringing back his previously dead mother to meet the whole gang to booth) before starting to walk towards them, a determined expression on his face.

_Oh God_.

Dean thought he’d never see this again - he’d never seen _Cas_ again - he can’t believe he’d already forgotten, or maybe he’d never fully appreciated, how handsome and perfect Cas is - forgetting his mom is even there, he takes a few steps towards Cas, beams at him, and Cas - Cas half crashes into him, hugs him tight around the middle.

“Dean,” he says (a half whisper, a half curse) in the crook of his shoulder, and Dean feels like he could cry.

“Hey, come on,” he says, trying to keep both hands on Cas’ back (his right hand is itching to move higher, to cup the back of Cas’ neck, to card through Cas’ hair). “I was gone, like, two days.”

“Three,” Cas says, taking a step back, drinking him in before frowning his customary _I’m extremely serious_ frown. “And don’t think the irony is lost on me.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Dean says, a knot of affection glowing and blooming from his stomach right into his mouth; and then he almost jumps when his mom clears her throat, like, two inches behind him.

“You must be Castiel,” she says, a bit warily, when Dean steps aside.

“I - yes,” Cas says, his sandpapery voice moving an octave lower (Dean knows him well enough by now to recognize Cas is uncomfortable as fuck, and he smiles).

“This is my mom,” he says, unnecessarily, trying to be normal about things.

Mary frowns.

“I’ve met a few angels,” she says. “Not a fan.”

Cas looks at Dean, who shrugs.

“I - uhm - met a few hundred thousands,” Cas says, completely deadpan. “They don’t get better when their number increases.”

Mary remains completely still for a few seconds, as though trying to work out if Cas is serious or not; and then she laughs.

“Mary,” she says, extending her hand; and Cas takes it.

“Castiel,” he replies. “It’s very nice to meet you in the present time.”

“We’ve met before?”

“Yeah, let’s not get into all that,” says Dean hurriedly, and then, thank God, Jody pulls into the driveway, emerges from her car as the best of all things - a solidly rational woman in a police officer’s uniform and also someone who’s carrying two boxes of pastries - and the situation gets a bit more normal.

In fact, by the time they’re all sitting around a table groaning with food, Dean is almost completely happy. He’s been hugged by everyone, including Claire; his mom is absently buttering and slipping him pieces of toast as if he were a toddler, for which he’s very grateful despite Jody’s badly hidden smiles; Cas is sitting on his other side, doing his best to pretend to be human (though he still makes mistakes from time to time, like right now - Dean elbows him so he’ll stop staring at a piece of cauliflower - Cas is dorky enough to try and work out why it grows the way it does, or some shit); Claire seems a bit more normal than last time they’ve met - she’s even mentioned college, described the whole thing, trying her best to sound indifferent, after Mary had asked her for more details - she’s apparently taking Anthropology, something to do with Inca culture, and very clearly loving it; and Jody - Jody is fucking _marvellous_ , as usual. Her pot roast is to die for, there are flowers on the table (not that Dean has noticed them, because that would be girly of him), and she’s even called in a favour and tracked down the flight Sam was probably on.

“London,” she’s saying now, looking at him, then at Mary. “But I can’t tell where it went from there - it’s possible they stayed in the country, but London is a huge place - thousand of connecting flights every freaking day -”

“Hey, he’s probably having the time of his life,” says Dean, both to silence the pang of worry that’s been gnawing at him for three days and because, let’s be honest, it’s probably true. “Sammy’s always going on and on about us needing a holiday -”

Just then, Cas grabs the edges of the table, makes a soft, surprised noise.

“Hey, you alright? What is it?” Dean asks, grabbing Cas’ shoulder, in a completely manly, unaffected way.

“Sam,” Cas says, softly.

“My boy? Is he - is he _praying_ to you?”

“Yes, he -”

They all hold their breath as Cas closes his eyes, focuses on it.

“His prayers are a lot more respectful than yours, Dean,” he says after a full minute, opening his eyes again, and Dean almost sticks his tongue out.

“Yeah, yeah. What’s he sayin’? Is he okay?”

“Yes,” Cas says, and Dean can hear his mom sighing in relief.

Without turning around, he offers up his hand, and she takes it, laces their fingers together.

“He’s somewhere South of London. Apparently, their library is much bigger and much better organized than yours,” he adds, as though reading from a letter.

“Ah! _Told_ you he’d go straight for the library. What a _nerd_.”

“What do they want with him?”

“Assistance,” says Cas, seriously. “They know about the recent events - they assumed Sam would be - hostile - because of his police record, which is why they -”

“Police record?” Mary asks, her fingers tightening around Dean’s, and this time Dean turns around, makes a vague gesture which implies a bit of everything - the whole thing being a mistake, and Sam not actually having been in prison (or, at least, not very long), and who cares, anyway, because Sam is _fine_ and now everything is alright with the world.

“He wants me to come over,” says Cas, “and sends his love.”

“Hey, he wants _you_ to come over? What about _me_?” Dean protests, and the temperature in the room seems to drop twenty degrees.

Dean looks at Cas, and Cas looks back at him steadily in his usual worried, sorrowful way, and -

_Shit_.

“Right. He thinks I’m dead,” Dean says slowly, and again, his mother’s fingers tighten on his. “ _Fuck_.”

“We need to call them,” Jody says, and she actually takes her phone out of her pocket, as though one of them had a number.

Which, as it turns out, is God’s honest truth, because just then the doorbell rings - Dean has to do his best not to go for his gun - Jody smiles at them all, walks out of the room - comes back two minutes later looking very pissed off indeed -

“For you,” she says, darkly, and when Dean stands up, they all follow him, like he’s gonna drop dead if they leave him alone for one goddamn second, or turn himself into a suicide bomber to destroy an ancient evil and save the world - 

(And, to be fair, that happened _once_. Sort of. Those other times he died - they don't count.)

“So it’s true,” someone says, before Dean has even stepped into the dark entry hall; and, of course, he would know that arrogant drawl anywhere.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he replies, as dickishly as he can manage it, but he’s also stepping forward, and at the sound of his voice, Crowley sort of shakes his head in wonder, steps forward, takes him in.

For a second, they just look at each other - Crowley can feel the Devil’s Trap over the threshold, no doubt, and Dean knows it’s there, because he’s the one who painted the damn thing - and then Dean steps directly under those (now invisible) lines, crosses his arms on his chest. 

“You’ve got the devil’s luck, Squirrell,” Crowley says, doing his best to seem completely indifferent.

“Yeah, no such thing. Just talent and hard work,” Dean says, but his mouth is twitching. “Not that you’d know anything about that.”

Dean’s always felt wrongfooted around Crowley, and things have only gotten worse over the years, because this, right here, is now the most powerful demon walking the Earth. And the most human. An enemy, of course, but also - _also_ -

A warning goes on like a foghorn inside his brain, but Dean ignores it; instead, he takes another step forward, walking out of the wards, because Crowley came through for them and deserves as much.

Crowley nods at him, acknowledging the gesture; then he tilts his head back and flashes him one of his usual secret, sideways smirk.

“Well, for what’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t hop the twig. That would have been a waste of a perfectly good -”

“ _Crowley_ ,” says Dean, firmly, almost reaching into his belt for a gun that’s not there, “that’s my _mother_. Right _there_.”

He crosses his arms again, steps to one side, turns around - and sees Mary looking between the two of them. She seems uncertain for a second - Dean glances back at Crowley, sees the damn guy smile at her with his best salesman’s smile, sees him blinking, his eyes flashing black, then red, before going back to their customary brown.

_Oh, come_ on.

“King of Hell, Mrs Winchester. At your service. A figure of speech, of course. I serve no one, as your son well knows,” he adds, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“So, you’re still King, then?” he asks, ignoring the jab.

“Only way a coup can be successful is if someone else steps up to claim the crown,” says Crowley, almost affably, “And it’s a bit difficult to claim a crown if you don’t have a head to put it on.”

Dean hears Cas scoffing behind him, but he can’t help it: he grins.

“You’re a right son of a bitch,” he says, and Crowley winks at him; and then he lowers his voice, adds, “But, well, you’re still not invited in.” 

_It’s Jody’s house_ , is what Dean is saying, and Crowley gets it.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m late for my homecoming party, anyway.”

“Right.”

“Dean.”

Dean glances back at Cas, sees at once what Cas is thinking - if anyone is likely to have a direct phone number for a secret society on the other side of the fucking Atlantic, well, that’s the fucking King of Hell.

And, yeah, Cas was right, as usual, because Crowley _does_ have the number. He writes it on Dean’s hand, taking great care to sign with a heart, and then raises his eyebrows at Cas, in a very obvious _I tapped that - did_ you _?_ way before leaving, or, at any rate, disappearing into nothingness - one second he’s standing there, and the next he’s just gone and Cas shakes his blade back inside his sleeve, looking a bit put out.

“Was that - was he _serious_? Dean, what the _hell_ have you been up to?” Mary asks, and everyone (Jody, Claire, even Cas) look like they agree. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” says Dean, automatically, because it’s _exactly_ what it looks like; and then he steps back inside, closes the door, fishes his phone out of his pocket. “And I will tell you about it, but - let’s call Sammy first, okay?”

And, again, they all stand there and stare at him as he punches the number in and waits. He tries to look up and smile at his mother, but all of a sudden the reality of her presence there - of what it means, and what it will mean to Sam - is just too much to bear.

(Because Dean - Dean _had_ Mom, at least for a few years. Sammy only ever had Dean. And how fucked up is that?)

“This is Antonia Bevell,” says a clipped, cultured voice, and just like that, Dean’s in full dickbag mode, because he can’t think - because these assholes shot Sammy -

“I know that, sweetheart,” he says, grinning even if she can’t see him. “I’m the one calling you, remember?”

“Who is this?”

“Oh, I think you know who. Now let me talk to my brother.”

And, man, Dean’s well-trained, but _anyone_ could hear what’s in that immediate, deafening silence - shock, a thousand questions, and even - that’s for sure - a healthy dose of fear.

And they _should_ be afraid, because if they hurt Sam -

“Mr Winchester. I’m glad you made it out.”

“Cut the crap,” Dean says, still very aware of the way everyone is staring at him - the way his _mom_ is staring at him.

“I’m afraid Sam is not available at this time.”

This woman sounds like someone who can hold her ground, but Dean’s had worse.

Like, he’s literally shouted at God’s freaking _sister_ only three days ago, so he doesn't give a _damn_ \- 

“Listen, lady, I don’t care if he’s showering or waxing his nuts or hanging by his thumbs from your ceiling, okay? I want to _talk_ to him, right _now_ ,” he growls, and again, he can almost _feel_ this Antonia person taking a step back. “I'm tight with the King of Hell, I offed _three_ archangels,” he adds, and now it’s not just strategy - now he’s seriously getting angry - _not available_ , right - he looks up, sees Cas raising one eyebrow -

\- _What?_ he mouths, because yeah, so he didn't gank any of them, but they're still dead, aren't they? 

“And I killed Death - stabbed him in the guts with his fucking _scythe_. You think I give a _damn_ about your little tea and crumpets club? You think I won't come there and burn it to the fucking _ground_?”

“I -” the woman says, but there’s nothing after that.

“Right. Now put my damn brother on the line. _Stat_.”

Dean turns his face away - he knows the others have seen him in serial killer mode before, but he’s afraid to look at his mother, to see what she’ll make of all this - and yet he can’t help himself - part of it is still for show, of course, because he’s stuck here and there’s nothing he can do for Sam right now, but also - also - if they’ve touched _one_ hair on Sammy’s fucking head -

“Dean?”

It’s Sam’s voice, and he sounds - ruined.

“Sammy?”

Dean turns around, collapses against the wall.

“Oh _God_.”

Sam’s not crying, but he’s - he’s breathing fast and deep into the phone, he’s -

Dean starts talking, then, and he keeps talking because he’s selfish and he can’t hear that thing inside his kid brother’s voice; not when Sam is thousands of miles away, not when Dean can’t help him, can’t save him -

“ _Save_ me?” Sam says, after about ten minutes of half words and proactive listening. “I don’t _need_ saving.”

“Are you high? Sam, that bitch shot you.”

There is a moment of silence. Dean hears Sam stand up, hears the creaking of floorboards.

“Her name is Toni Bevell, and she’s actually - you can Google her, if you want.”

Yeah, because what this day needed was for things to get _weirder_.

“She's on _Google_?”

“Well, not as head librarian for a secret organization, obviously,” Sam snaps, the bitch face coming through loud and clear, “but she’s the chairwoman of the Greenwich Hospital Veterans’ Trust and she also supports -”

“Uh uh,” Dean interrupts him, switching apps so he can Google this woman, because, _really_? Did they fry Sam’s brain already? For fuck’s sake, he can’t leave the kid alone for _one_ damn second -

“Dean, she’s a nice person.”

“I can see that,” Dean says, whistling appreciatively as he lands on the right picture (some fancy dress event, and there she is, all white silk and golden jewelry). “So I guess anyone can shoot you and get a free pass as long as they've got a nice pair of -”

“ _Dean_.”

“Right.”

“I only meant - God, why do you always have to be such a jerk?”

And this is so unfair, and Dean is still wired from everything else - 

“Me? _I_ ’m the jerk? _Jesus_ , Sammy, I was gone three days - three days and you’ve gone and got hitched already? At least last time you waited, what? Two weeks?”

Cas takes a step towards him, but Dean doesn’t need it, because he’s already panicking, because he’s an idiot he shouldn’t have said it and _goddammit_ , he knows Sam is not over it, and -

“Hey, I’m not judging,” he blurts out, trying to fix it. “I’m happy you finally found yourself a girlfriend, and, you know, if you have any questions - maybe it’s time to have the talk and all.”

Sam breathes into the phone for a second.

“Whatever. You’re still a jerk,” he says, but he sounds much better, and Dean smiles.

“Bitch.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Were you - is it - is Mom really back?”

Yeah, Sam had been weird when Dean had first told him this, and Dean gets it. Hell, he’s _seen_ Mom - he’s looking at Mom right _now_ \- and he still can’t believe it. And that joy, that fear in Sam’s voice - it's like the kid's six all over again, and Dean -

“She is,” he says, glancing at Mom, then away. “Do you wanna talk to her?”

“I - yeah.”

More silence.

“Sammy, it’s okay. 

_You're allowed to freak out, because this is insane_ , he wants to say, but he's not good at this kind of thing, so he doesn't.

"Hey, we made it out. Things are good,” he adds instead.

“For now,” Sam says, ominously. “You wouldn’t _believe_ what’s going on here.”

“You can tell me all about it when you get back,” Dean says, firmly, because, seriously, _enough_ drama - doesn’t he deserve one damn evening off?

“When I get back?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you come over?”

“What?”

“This place, Dean - you can’t imagine. They have an armory,” he adds, just this side of scoffing, when he senses Dean’s far from sold. “A place as big as the Bunker, full of weapons.”

“So you want me to get on a plane and come there? _Me_?”

Dean can almost hear Sam’s smile.

“Get Cas to come with you. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hold your hand.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Dean automatically glances at the people still waiting to know what the hell is going on - his mom, now looking slightly disapproving; Jody and Claire, both frowning; and Cas, who, of course, has got superpowers or some shit, which means he’s hearing both sides of this conversation.

Dean looks at him in a _Don’t you even think about it_ way, then goes back to insulting his dickbag brother, who definitely deserves it for shacking up with Lady Nice instead of grieving over his lifeless body. 

Not that Sam _had_ a body to grieve over, but still. It’s the principle of the thing.

# ~

Two days later, the flight is booked and Dean and Cas are standing in front of the gate, watching Jody and Mary walk away.

“If this is a problem for you, it’s not too late to remain behind,” says Cas, seriously, for the twentieth time. “I can go fetch Sam on my own.”

Dean stares uneasily out of the window at a huge plane now taking off, and he scowls.

“I’m not a child. I’ll be fine.”

Which, well, is not exactly the truth.

Unless by _fine_ you mean almost passing out during takeoff and then hyperventilating and then drinking two of those small wine bottles in a row and being looked at in disapproval when asking for a third.

In which case, Dean is _totally_ fine.

And then the flight gets _weirder_.

Dean wakes up from a restless sleep to find Cas staring down at his passport in the half light.

“Hey,” he rasps out. “What's up? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I don’t sleep, Dean,” says Cas, and there's no need for the words to plunge inside Dean’s chest and carve his damn heart out, okay?

None.

(But, well.)

“No, I know. I just meant,” he says, and then he realizes everybody else is still asleep, and he lowers his voice. “Hell, I don’t know. What are you doing?”

“Reading.”

“Your passport?”

Cas looks straight at him, and Dean has the unsettling feeling Cas has been playing dumb all these years and knows _exactly_ what’s going on - that Cas knows, in fact, _everything_ \- not that it’d be a shocker, because Dean hasn’t exactly been subtle about it - God, that fucking _passport_ \- he still remembers Sam leaning against the door frame, Sam crossing his arms over his freakishly large chest; Sam saying, his whole demeanour just oozing kindness and love a an honest desire to do God’s work, “Have you thought about the venue yet?”

“The venue?” Dean had asked, a bit distractedly.

“Yeah. I guess we could do it here, but the Bunker can be a bit depressing. And you’ll want to have a good light. You know, for the pictures.”

Dean had thrown a huge volume ( _The Art of Reading Pigeon Entrails: Part One_ ) at his head, but it hadn’t helped.

Because Sam - Sam hadn’t been wrong.

Steve Seger. _Right_.

“No, I also read the safety instructions and the free magazine,” Cas says, as if to regain some dignity, and at that moment there is a slight change in cabin pressure, and, fucking _God_ (or Chuck, or whoever), Dean is reminded of the fact he’s trapped in a metal box thousands of feet over the ocean and -

“Are you alright?”

Dean is sitting back, his hands clutching the armrests. He doesn’t look at Cas, but he _does_ feel Cas’ warm hand closing on his forearm.

“Yeah. Peachy,” he forces out, but, well.

“Maybe you should masturbate,” Cas says, his voice now so low as to be almost uncorporeal, and the thing is so shockingly unexpected Dean forgets about his own impending death for a second and turns to stare at Cas instead.

“ _What_?”

Cas shuffles.

“I read this article,” he says, a bit diffidently, “about the Super Bowl.”

“...okay?”

“They asked athletes how they relax the night before the game. One said he indulges in masturbation, but the coach insisted it makes things worse. It’s very confusing,” he concludes, still in the same low voice that’s sending shivers down Dean’s back.

“What do _you_ think?” he answers, in a half whisper.

“How would I know?”

“You were human once,” Dean says, and Cas almost blushes, lets go of Dean's arm.

“I - I don’t know,” he insists, and Dean doesn’t know why this is suddenly so important - why he keeps prodding at the matter even though it clearly makes Cas uncomfortable.

Or, well: he _does_ know. 

He's known for a while, in fact.

_Years._

“Yeah, don’t tell you never - I don’t believe you.”

“It’s not that,” Cas says, and yep, now he’s definitely blushing, and just the sight of it is making Dean hard in his jeans.

Thank God for the complimentary blanket.

“Sometimes it did help me to sleep,” Cas says, and he looks away. “But other times it made me think - it just reminded me of how -”

“How what?”

“You weren’t there,” says Cas, and it could be a non sequitur, but it really, really _isn’t_.

Dean reaches over, grabs Cas’ arm.

“Hey - what I said in the car - I meant it Cas. You’re - I’m sorry, okay? For what I did. And I always - I missed you too,” he says, his fingers tightening on the dark fabric of Cas’ jacket.

“Thank you.”

“Jesus, don’t - don’t _thank_ me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you make it sound -”

Dean doesn’t know, exactly. He just knows it’s wrong - wrong that Cas should feel _grateful_ for what Dean’s giving him, because Dean isn’t giving him much of anything, and Cas is wonderful and strong and billions of years old and a complete _dork_ and he deserve _everything_.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, abandoning his attempts at finishing that other question, and, of course, Cas knows what Dean’s asking, because Dean’s been asking the same question for a while now - he’s asked it by making that stupid passport and by forcing Cas to stay behind - to stay safe in the Bunker - while he and Sam were out killing things and he’s asked it, loud as _fuck_ , by allowing Lucifer to even _step_ inside the fucking place - by allowing Lucifer to be anywhere near Sam, because Sam sometimes still had nightmares about it all - about Lucifer, and about the Cage - but that was Cas’ body Lucifer was parading around, and Cas’ eyes looking back at them, and Cas’ heart underneath that stupid white shirt, and Dean -

“I am sure,” Cas says, in his gravelly voice, and Dean moves his hand up - he follows Cas’ arm all the way to the shoulder, and then - finally; _finally_ \- he touches Cas’ bare skin (cups Cas’ face, presses his thumb, only just, on Cas’ lower lip).

“You can always change your mind,” Dean says softly, feeling like someone out of a _Safe Sex_ brochure and yet unable to help himself (those women - those men - he’s been with? adults, and players, and people who understood how the thing worked; Cas? something else altogether). “If you decide you don’t like it - if you want us to go back to - if you want us to be just friends -”

And Cas - Cas dips his head, sucks Dean’s thumb into his mouth, and okay, Dean’s fully hard now, and it almost hurts and he’s about to come in his pants like a stupid _kid_.

And that can’t happen, which is why Dean choses the way of cold logic and manly resolution and distracts Cas by moving closer and crashing their mouths together.

Only the plan backfires, because Cas moans when Dean licks his lips and his teeth, and, _God_ -

“I can feel you longing for me,” Cas says, his hands now fisted in Dean’s shirt. “Do you want me to touch you? Everyone is sleeping.”

Dean sighs against Cas’ mouth.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” he whispers. “They could wake up any moment.”

“But they won’t.”

Cas kisses him again, his hands moving to the back of Dean’s neck - through Dean’s hair -

And the meaning of Cas' words sinks in.

“Wait - you remembered not to mojo the _pilot_ , did you?”

Dean can’t fault Cas for rolling his eyes at him; and he can’t keep up that line of questioning, either, because apparently he didn’t say anything (God, how _can_ he say anything?) but whatever happened around his heart, or his soul, or whatever, was plenty enough for Cas to figure out what to do next - for Cas to move a bit closer and nibble at Dean’s neck and then, _Jesus_ , his hands are undoing Dean’s jeans - are touching him, palming him through the fabric of his briefs, and Dean will actually, literally _die_ from this.

And thank _God_ Cas hasn’t done this before. Hopefully he won’t realize how little Dean’s lasted - how the slightest movement of his hand on Dean’s dick, the barely there pressure of his thumb over the slit - have been more than enough to set Dean off, to make him feel hot and cold and hot all over, to make his shirt all wet and gross and his heart heavy with love and want.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, his face pressed against Cas’ hair, his breathing still a bit uneven. “I don’t want you to miss me, ever again. Cas, I - all those years -” 

And what Cas says, to that, well - that makes Dean hard all over again, and, at the same time, it makes him feel more fragile he’s ever felt in his life.

(He’s never had that much to lose; he’s never felt as split open and vulnerable like he does right now.

And also: he’s never felt safer.)

# ~

“This country _sucks_ ,” Dean says, looking balefully at the crowds of tourists turning towards Covent Garden.

He’s still sweaty from the subway, and he’s bad-tempered, as he always is when he can’t drive (they’re waiting for a Men of Letters car to pick them up, and even if Dean’s managed to find an old contact of Bobby’s and his duffel bag is now comfortably heavy again - three knives made of three different metals, a rock-salt gun and two regular guns, not to mention the brass-knuckles currently hidden in his jeans’ pocket, because he doesn’t trust these limey bastards one _bit_ \- he's still not happy about any of this).

“You haven’t seen any of it yet,” Cas points out, reasonably, and how unfair is it that he’s the one who hasn’t slept or eaten anything for two days and yet here he is, as picture perfect as ever, his face alert and serious, his stupid suit perfectly pressed?

“Whoa - what do you mean, _yet_? We’re not _staying_. We’re getting Sam and then we’re going back home.”

Cas looks at him in mock exasperation.

“You could use a holiday, Dean. Both of you.”

“Yeah, so could you. It’s not -”

“And you might like it here.”

Dean splutters. He adjusts his duffel more firmly on his shoulder, gestures vaguely at the complete _idiocy_ of it all - the bright red buses, the Cornish pastries stalls (even though, admittedly, those things smell like _Heaven_ ), the sky above them, already moving from sun to clouds to, quite possibly, hail, because, yeah. 

“Your mother could join us,” Cas adds, somewhat uncertainly, and Dean scoffs.

“It’s not about that. I’m a grownass man,” he says, choosing to forget he’s called his mother twice already since they’ve landed. “It’s just - _look_ at them. They drive on the _left_ , for Chrissakes.”

Cas stares at him for a second.

“I’m sure you’d learn in no time,” he says, in his most flawless _I’m totally not fucking with you_ voice. “You’re very good with your hands.”

And Dean honest to God stops _breathing_ , almost dies there for a moment, looks around to see how many people have heard - and, yeah, this is Long Acre at peak time, so, the answer is, _hundreds_ of them - and then finds he doesn’t care at all.

Because so he’s fucking Cas, so what? 

(Not that he _is_ , technically, but he’s getting there.)

Cas is _gorgeous_ , for starters. Also a motherfucking _seraph_ who can probably move stuff with his mind. And a _very_ good kisser. 

Also: his.

And Dean is fucking _proud_ of that.

Especially here, that is, in a place full of strangers, because when _Sam_ learns about this - yeah, Dean’s not living it down any time soon. Sam can be a little shit when he puts his mind to something, which means the motherfucking teasing of the _century_ is about to start.

Not for another couple of hours, though.

Which means there’s no reason, really, not to grab Cas’ tie and pull the stupid angel closer and closer; no reason not to smirk down at him and nibble at his ear and say, “I’ll show you _good_ ,” and swallow Cas’ sigh into his own mouth and hug the stupid bastard, right in the middle of this busy street in fucking London, England - because the world is okay and they’ve made it out and, goddammit, Cas is _right_ : it’s definitely time for a holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, here's to the end of a fantastic season. What a ride. All the beauty, all the pain, all the feels, and now months to go before we can find out what happens next.
> 
> My plans for the summer: finish my _Season 11_ story (sorry again, that was a real dick move on my part), keep working on my Dean story (which is, really, a Destiel story, because let's be serious), writing those tumblr prompts I promised, and go back to my DCBB entry (which is going to be so, so painful). And, hopefully, find the time to even start my Newt Scamander project, because those people are back and that makes me so very happy.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.


End file.
